


What If

by EosPrime



Category: Aladdin (1992)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-03-21 13:21:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13741785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EosPrime/pseuds/EosPrime
Summary: What if, when Jafar told Jasmine he'd had Aladdin beheaded, he really had?





	1. Chapter 1

Dark strands of hair stuck to her forehead, sticky with sweat. Tossing and turning, her dreams were pulled back to the market in Agrabah. To the boy with the purple vest and khaki pants. To the maroon fez that he wore. To his eyes -- his calming brown eyes. Her heartbeat sped in terror as she dreamt of the shop owner that had nearly cut off her hand. Suddenly, she was looking up in the boy's brown eyes, and listening to him call her crazy. It was like she was reliving every moment she'd spent with him -- the boy she knew only as "Street Rat."  
The night had crept in around them, enveloping them in its calm quiet. She remembered feeling so overwhelmingly close to him as they stumbled upon the realization that they both felt trapped. She felt like they could have something in common, like there could have been something there. Scene by scene, Jasmin was ripped through her time with the boy, panicking again when the guards barged in on them, breaking a moment that could have been. The worst part, the one that scared her the most, sending her body into tremors, was Razoul's callous disregard for her femininity, throwing her to the ground. She had told him she was the princess, to release him, and it had meant nothing.  
She awoke, remembering Jafar's slithering voice sliding into her ears. Tears streamed down her face as she remembered his final words, "Death ... by beheading." It was the last thing she'd heard. She didn't know if he'd continued speaking. Those three words banged around in her head, ricocheting off of her skull, echoing into nothing. As she lay on the bed, dawn broke out her window, warming the sky to a deep purple, then to the blue to which she had become so accustomed.  
Staring up at the canopy on her bed, Jasmine gasped in shock as her bedroom doors flew open. Her father, The Sultan, came strolling in, throwing a purple piece of fabric on her bed. His face was set in anger, and if she was reading his face right, disgust. Before she could speak, he broke the silence. "Aladdin is in the dungeon," he said, a cruel smile coming to his face. "Aladdin?" Jasmine asked, confused. "The street rat you were caught with. The one you tried to use My Power to get released." She couldn't help but blink, tilting her head. "His name was Aladdin? And your power? I said, 'By order of the Princess.'" He sneered at her, stalking closer to the bed. "You would think that you had power. Your mother --"  
"My mother, what, Father? My mother would never have attempted to usurp your power? My mother would never have spoken to you --" His hand connected with Jasmine's face, a loud snap echoing off the walls. She brought her hand to her face, caressing the spot that her father had just abused. "Did you lay with him?" her father asked softly, the anger clear in his voice. "Lay with him? What are you ..." As understanding dawned on Jasmine, so did a whip of anger. "What kind of woman do you think I am?" she raged, standing up. "Why didn't you just marry me off to the highest bidder then?"  
Jasmine watched as her father's eyes caught fire, the distaste showing through. "You want me to marry you off, Jasmine? Because I can." Realizing her mistake, Jasmine sat back on her bed. Advancing on her, The Sultan pointed his index finger at her. "In the morning, the street rat will be beheaded, Jasmine." She looked up at him, wondering where this line of thought was going. She didn't have to wonder long. "You will join me, daughter, and you will watch as your street rat goes under the guillotine.” His eyes turned dark, and he sat on the edge of her bed next to her. “You will watch his head separate from his body, and then, you will come back here. After that, I will decide what to do with you.”  
Looking around absently, Jasmine’s attention was suddenly on the purple piece of fabric her father had thrown onto her bed. Her eyes widened in shock as she realized what it was. Picking it up, she glared at her father. “You bring me his vest, Father? The vest of the boy you’re going to kill for … Why is he being beheaded?” He smiled at her, knowledge glinting in his eyes. “For kidnapping you, of course.” Her anger returned, and she pointed her finger at her father. “I ran away from you. After that awful Prince Achmed, I couldn’t stand being here for another minute.”  
Her father’s face reddened, and he steeled himself against her. “Jasmine. You will be awake in the morning, and you will watch him die. Razoul will come for you, you will be ready, and you will watch. You won’t blink. You won’t look away. If you do, I will lock you in the dungeon for the rest of your life. Are we clear?”  
Before she could answer, he turned and stalked out the door. She waited a few minutes and then followed her father out, heading for the dungeon. She slipped quietly down the staircase, listening to her footsteps in the dark silence around her. Jasmine reached the bottom of the stairs armed with the knowledge that there was only one cell her father would keep Aladdin in. She removed the torch from its holder and made her way to the cell.  
Surprise crossed her features as she looked through the small window in the door. The cell was tiny; she’d been in there as a lesson when she was young, but she could have reached through and touched the other wall had she been tall enough. She remembered it being much larger. “Aladdin?” she whispered tentatively into the dark, but she received no answer. Raising her voice, she called again, and again received no answer.


	2. A Silent

Jasmine’s sheets whispered against her skin that night, spinning horrifying webs of deceit and despair around her. Nightmares of a union with Jafar assaulted her, taking her down dream-passages that got increasingly worse the longer she slept.  
She awoke before the sun rose, sweat dripping off her body. She sat up, her face cupped in her hands as the tears fell, both in sadness from the life ripped from a boy she’d barely known and for the life that she now knew she could never have.  
Wrapping her blanket around her, she went out on the balcony, looking over the edge at the huge tiger asleep by the fountain near the menagerie. “Rajah,” she whispered, and the tiger turned to look up at her with large yellow eyes. She waved, smiling at the beast, and then laughed aloud as he jumped onto the edge of the fountain, preening for her. She waved again and moved back toward the door, pulling a chaise over so she could curl up on it. When she got comfortable, sleep dragged her under again, but the dreams, while chilling, were not as bad. She woke again some time later, confused about a weight that had settled on her lap. A weight on her heart she could understand, but a weight on her lap?  
She opened her eyes to the early rays of the sun and was surprised to find a ball of fur shivering on the blanket. Jasmine slid her fingers under the ball and jumped as it shrieked in fear. “It’s ok, little … thing,” she stammered, unsure of what the critter was. As it raised its head to look at her, recognition dawned. “Abu?” she questioned the small brown face. “Abu is that you?” The small monkey nodded, scrabbling at her to get closer, to be held.  
Jasmine pulled Abu against her chest, covering the both of them with her blanket, and just held him. Her tears began to fall again, her sadness reawakened by the small ball of fur that sat shivering against her skin.  
Later in the morning, she emerged from unconsciousness, not sure if she were ready to take on the day. She pulled the blanket off of her, surprised to find Abu still on her chest. She had thought it a dream, waking to find the furry creature on her. But here he was, coarse fur and long tail curled around her neck, in the middle of a sleep that seemed closer to a coma than restful sleep. It felt perfect, snuggled up against Abu, but she knew that perfection was too quickly stolen from her.  
“Abu,” she nudged him. He opened his big brown eyes and looked up at her, confusion coloring his all-too-human features. “I need to find a safe place for you to stay. I don’t want anything to happen to you,” the word _too_ stuck on the end of her tongue. She walked into her room, surveying the property that was quickly becoming a prison. Her attention was drawn to her armoire. It was tall, but not too tall, and though it stood open, the top was hidden from view.  
Dragging her bench from her vanity over to the armoire, she stood on it, arranging a blanket on top of the furniture. “Abu,” she called him, and he scaled her, swinging himself up to land on it. He turned and made a face at her, and she laughed quietly. “I’m sorry the blanket is pink. It’s warm, though.” He pulled at the fabric, nuzzling his face down into it over and over again, finally making himself comfortable. With a nod in her direction, he settled down, drifting off to sleep.  
She’d just put the bench back when a knock thundered in the quiet of the room. Checking to ensure Abu wouldn’t be seen, she went to the bedroom door and opened both doors of it to come face to face with Razoul. She hadn’t seen him since the execution, but had heard him talking to other guards as they passed. “Sentry duty?” she asked, venom coloring her voice. He stood in the doorway and waited for her to actually greet him.  
Turning, her brown eyes met his and her brow furrowed. “What are you waiting for? Come in.” He took one step into her room and stopped. He’d never been inside her private quarters. It smelled, surprisingly enough, like clean linens and flowers, jasmine flowers to be exact. He fought the smile at the corners of his mouth and watched her straighten up the room.  
“Your father would like to see you,” he said and stepped back out of the room.  
“Seven words? That’s all I get?” She was annoyed at herself for becoming so frustrated. He never spoke to her. Why would she expect him to now?  
“Please.” She looked up to see him leaned over, looking in at her. Surprise weighed heavily on her as she collected herself enough to go see the monster that had the audacity to call himself her father. The man who now sat on the throne was not her father, and she intended to tell him just that.

“The Princess,” Razoul said, bowing his head and gesturing widely. As Jasmine passed him, she noticed that he watched her carefully and, when she walked toward her father, Razoul pasted himself against the wall next to the door. Odd, she thought. He usually left.  
Not wanting to be distracted when she finally stood before the throne, she pushed all thought from her mind and focused on The Sultan.  
“So, daughter,” he began, pausing as Jafar stalked into the room, his robes billowing behind him. “Ah, Jafar. So nice to see you,” he crowed, reaching up to take the Vizier’s hand. He pulled Jafar toward Jasmine, stopping just in front of her. “I am so relieved I have found you a suitor,” he said, putting Jafar’s hand around Jasmine’s.  
Snatching her hand out of Jafar’s, Jasmine looked at her father. “Why are you doing this?”  
He smiled up at her, with a smile that wasn’t a smile at all. “You stole something from me,” he said, a cutting blade in his voice. “So I will take everything from you.”  
“You would kill me, Father?” she asked, incredulous.  
“Oh, no,” he said, looking back up at Jafar. “I will give you what I want for you – a husband who will do as I say and will not question me. I can’t very well leave my kingdom to you, now can I?” He placed Jasmine’s hand back into Jafar’s, his face turning red when she snatched it away yet again.  
“I will never marry Jafar,” she said, her heart ice. “I will never do as you ask, and I certainly will never, ever make the mistake of thinking you are my father again.”  
When The Sultan did not speak or move, Jasmine barreled on with her anger. “I don’t know what happened to you, but you are not my father. The man who is my father is kind, loving, and giving. You are none of those things –“  
Suddenly, Jasmine found herself floating above the ground, her arms stuck to her torso and her legs stuck together. Jafar moved into Jasmine’s line of sight and she was suddenly much angrier. “Let me down! I have done nothing to warrant this! Let me go!”  
Jafar dragged a fingertip down her face. _Interesting,_ she thought to herself, _his skin does not feel like scales._ The thought was just as quickly let go as her body slammed into the marble floor. Her breath left her body, forcing her to squeak, and she was floating again, only to be slammed back against the marble. She began to cry, though she tried to force the tears back, but she was sure something had broken.  
“Tell me again, daughter, that you have done nothing,” her father spat at her. He motioned for Jafar to bring her bound body down toward him, putting a hand up to halt her descent. His small hand connected with her face, her head snapping to the side. Blood flooded her mouth, but in an act of defiance, she swallowed it. Her stomach revolted, but she kept it down.  
Gulping in breath, Jasmine looked once more at her father. “You and your vizier,” she sneered the word, “are monsters. Lock me away forever, kill me, or flay my skin from my bones. But I will never, never marry Jafar. I would take my own life before I ever laid in his bed.”  
Jafar’s growl of anger filled the cavernous room as her small body was once again thrown against the marble. However, this time, he did not stop.

Jasmine awoke in her bed, sure she was dead. She tried to open her eyes, but she felt every impact with the floor with every breath she took. Wanting to move, Jasmine began to wiggle her fingers and toes, slowly moving more and more parts of her body. By the time she sat up, she was thoroughly relieved she could move, but also completely confused.  
Standing to walk to the washroom, Jasmine was surprised at the hand at her elbow, helping her across the room. She stopped and turned to look into the face of, “Razoul?”  
He didn’t speak, but nodded, leading her toward the washroom. Shaking her head, Jasmine stopped. “Why are you here? And how am I walking?”  
Razoul stopped and breathed what sounded like a sigh from his toes. “After you lost consciousness, Jafar dropped you. The Sultan was so angry, he forced Jafar to heal you. Said ‘since you broke her, fix her,’ and Jafar did. I was tasked with bringing you back here and ensuring you did not escape.”  
Suddenly angry, Jasmine wrenched her arm out of Razoul’s hand. Trembling, she closed her eyes and breathed as slowly as she could. “Leave,” she commanded and stumbled to the washroom, locking the door behind her. Dropping to her knees, she raked her hands through her hair. _So now, I am a prisoner._

 _What just happened?_ He stood in the middle of her room, surrounded by her scent and the memory of her look of … what had it been a look of? He could swear it had been hurt, but her anger had overcome anything else the moment he’d finished speaking. He stalked to her vanity, pulling out the bench and sinking heavily onto it. He took the turban off of his head and set it on the marble top, resting his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands.  
He heard the washroom door unlock, heard it open. She walked through the room, her footsteps shuffling out onto the balcony. He raised his head to look around, and saw her standing at the edge of her balcony, leaning against the guardrail. Her head was hung down, her hand constantly coming up to her face. She breathed out, loud enough for him to hear, and she stood, arching her back, her face up toward the sun.  
He watched from where he sat, watched the sunlight play off of her olive skin and hair so black it was almost blue. Her body was long and lithe, her heart-shaped face one he’d watched lose the extra weight of childhood. _What a beautiful creature._ The thought was so sudden, so strong, that he stood, knocking over the bench. He righted it, grabbed his turban, and stomped out the door, slamming it behind him. 

Jasmine turned in time to see Razoul run, for his life it seemed, out of her room. The door slammed and she jumped. Her gaze went to the top of the armoire where Abu leaned off the edge, a quizzical look on his face. She walked to him, reaching up for him to climb down. “I don’t know, Abu,” she said as she nuzzled her face into his fur. “Men …” she thought for a moment, “are strange creatures.”  
She went back out on the balcony, listening to the sound of the birds from the menagerie. Looking down, she noticed the tiger, Rajah, was nowhere to be found. Concerned, she left Abu on the armoire and searched the palace, looking for the tiger. When she could find him nowhere, she turned around and looked at the guard who’d been following her.  
“Tariq?” He nodded at her and she continued. “Have you seen Rajah, the tiger, anywhere? Do you have any idea where he may be?”  
“No, Princess. I am sorry. I have not seen the tiger.” The guard gestured back toward her quarters, so she complied, walking ahead of him. 

Two hours later, Jasmine came in from her balcony where she’d been reading to find a cart in the middle of her room. In the center of it was a silver platter with a cover over it. She cocked her head; she hadn’t asked for anything. She opened the bedroom door to find Razoul there, standing guard once again. “Do you know what is on that cart?” she asked.  
“Cart?” he replied, looking past her into the room.  
“I would think you would know it was there, since you are busy ‘ensuring I do not escape'. You didn’t see anyone bring it in?”  
“No, Princess.” He pushed past her into the room, his gaze wary as he checked the room. He approached the cart and, as she came to stand next to him, placed his hand on top of the lid. He gingerly raised it, and instinctively shifted to block Jasmine’s line of sight.  
She leaned to see around him, and, sitting in the middle of the silver platter, furry and wide-eyed, was Rajah’s head. Propped next to the head was a note that read, “Tell me again, daughter, that you have done nothing”. She recognized the handwriting as her father’s.  
Her breath left her as though she’d been punched and she crumbled to the floor, her lungs constricted. “Oh Allah,” she breathed, her eyes glued to the gruesome scene. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head, forcing herself to breathe. She felt an arm around her back as another threaded under her knees, and then she was lifted off the floor. Moments later, she found herself settled on her bed.  
Opening her eyes, she looked back at the cart. “Why would he do this?” she asked, reluctantly looking up at Razoul. “Why would he cut the head off of a tiger he loved?”  
“Because,” Razoul rumbled, “you loved the tiger more. And, one of the guards mentioned seeing the tiger help you over the wall.”  
Jasmine’s night of freedom came crashing back to her. “It’s my fault he’s dead. It’s my fault they’re both dead.”  
She laid back on the bed, tears sliding back into her hair, pooling in her ears, dripping onto her pillow. Sobs racked her body, her heart stuttering in her chest as a thousand tons of grief settled in her heart. Staring at the ceiling, she ran through everything she’d done, everything she had said. “I should just marry Jafar,” she whispered, defeated. The words felt slimy on her tongue, in her mind. 

It was as though she’d forgotten that he was there. She was sprawled across her bed, staring up, practically yelling at herself. “What are you saying? What are you thinking? You’re not going to marry him. Over his dead body,” she growled, standing up. She turned, he assumed to go to the washroom, and she looked up at him.  
“Oh,” she whispered, her eyes on his. “I am so sorry.”  
“Sorry that I had to hear that?” he said quietly, a smile threatening his lips.  
“Yes,” she replied, her eyebrows lowered. “I am not usually so …”  
“Angry?” he supplied.  
“Yes,” she said again. “I’m sorry you had to see that. I’m not usually that angry, but it seems that this has hit me in a way I did not expect. I’ll take my leave.” She pushed past him into the washroom, closing the door behind her.  
_Crazy,_ he thought to himself, looking at the heavy door. _She’s crazy._ He stalked to the vanity and pulled the bench out again. _I keep finding myself here,_ he lamented, _staring at the inside of her bedroom door. I should just leave._ But every time he told himself that, he found some reason to stay – a sound behind her washroom door, a sound outside her bedroom door, a sound out in the menagerie.  
When she finally came back out of the washroom, the sky outside had gone dark blue, approaching the black that would keep the world safe overnight.  
He stood, going to the bedroom door, his hand on the handle. “Eat, Princess,” he ordered, and left the room. 

When the sun came up the next morning, it he found Jasmine sitting on her balcony, her legs crossed, and her face toward the sun. Her breathing was slow and steady, her back straight.  
“Princess?” he said cautiously, not wanting to scare her. She turned, standing up, and raised her arms above her head, stretching. Her body turned, and as she settled into her normal stance, his gaze was glued to her.  
She was terribly underdressed for visitors, and it seemed she realized that. She began to walk back into her room, he supposed it was to put a robe on, but he wanted her to stay. No, _needed_ her to stay. He stopped her by putting his hand on her exposed belly. Surprise registered on her face before she backed up, anger replacing the surprise. “How dare you touch me?” she whispered, her hands trembling in what he assumed was anger. A thought, red-hot, it seemed, flew through her mind as she leaned toward him and spat, “unhand me.”  
He released her and, once again in unfamiliar territory, left her room. He leaned against the wall in the corridor, looking at the palm of his hand. It surprised him that it wasn’t black -- it felt like it had been burned. He’d been marked. That small, sylph-like girl, her anger evident in every beat of her heart, had begun etching herself into his heart, and he wasn't sure how he felt about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me forever to post. I was so unsure about what I was writing that, honestly, I didn't want to post it. I need to be sure, confident, but I've never really posted anywhere but my blog that I can give exclusive permissions to but here -- anyone can find it here. I hope you like it. I would love some feedback. Thank you all for reading.


	3. Nothing Is As It Seems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We follow Jasmine through the day before and the day of Aladdin's possible demise.

Dark strands of hair stuck to her forehead, sticky with sweat. Tossing and turning, her dreams were pulled back to the market in Agrabah. To the boy with the purple vest and khaki pants. To the maroon fez that he wore. To his eyes -- his calming brown eyes. Her heartbeat sped in terror as she dreamt of the shop owner that had nearly cut off her hand. Suddenly, she was looking up in the boy's brown eyes, and listening to him call her crazy. It was like she was reliving every moment she'd spent with him -- the boy she knew only as "Street Rat."  
The night had crept in around them, enveloping them in its calm quiet. She remembered feeling so overwhelmingly close to him as they stumbled upon the realization that they both felt trapped. She felt like they could have something in common, like there could have been something there. Scene by scene, Jasmin was ripped through her time with the boy, panicking again when the guards barged in on them, breaking a moment that could have been. The worst part, the one that scared her the most, sending her body into tremors, was Razoul's callous disregard for her femininity, throwing her to the ground. She could hear him as he called her a “street mouse.” She had told him she was the Princess, to unhand him, and it had meant nothing.  
She awoke, remembering Jafar's slithering voice sliding into her ears. Tears streamed down her face as she remembered his final words, "Death ... by beheading." It was the last thing she'd heard. She didn't know if he'd continued speaking. Those three words banged around in her head, ricocheting off of her skull, echoing into nothing. As she lay on the bed, dawn broke outside her window, warming the sky to a deep purple, then to the blue to which she had become so accustomed.  
Staring up at the canopy on her bed, Jasmine gasped in shock as her bedroom doors flew open. The Sultan, her _father_ came strolling in, throwing a purple piece of fabric on her bed. His face was set in anger, and if she was reading it right, disgust. Before she could speak, he broke the silence. "Aladdin is in the dungeon," he said, a cruel smile coming to his face. "Aladdin?" Jasmine asked, confused. "The street rat you were caught with. The one you tried to use _my power_ to get released." She couldn't help but blink, tilting her head. "His name was Aladdin? And your power? I said, 'By order of the Princess.'"  
He sneered at her, stalking closer to the bed. "You would think that you had power. Your mother --"  
"My mother, what, Father? My mother would never have attempted to usurp your power? My mother would never have spoken to you --" His hand connected with Jasmine's face, a loud snap echoing off the walls. She brought her hand to her face, caressing the spot that her father had just abused.   
"Did you lay with him?" her father asked softly, the anger clear in his voice.   
"Lay with him? What are you ..." As understanding dawned on Jasmine, so did a whip of anger. "What kind of woman do you think I am?" she raged, standing up. "Why didn't you just marry me off to the highest bidder then?"  
Jasmine watched as her father's eyes caught fire, the distaste showing through. "You want me to marry you off, Jasmine? Because I can." Realizing her mistake, Jasmine sat back on her bed. Advancing on her, The Sultan pointed his index finger at her. "In the morning, the street rat will be beheaded, Jasmine." She looked up at him, wondering where this line of thought was going. She didn't have to wonder long. "You will join me, daughter, and you will watch as your street rat goes under the guillotine.” His eyes turned dark, and he sat on the edge of her bed next to her. “You will watch his head separate from his body, and then, you will come back here. After that, I will decide what to do with you.”  
Looking around absently, Jasmine’s attention was suddenly on the purple piece of fabric her father had thrown onto her bed. Her eyes widened in shock as she realized what it was. Picking it up, she glared at her father. “You bring me his vest, Father? The vest of the boy you’re going to kill for … Why is he being beheaded?”   
He smiled at her, knowledge glinting in his eyes. “For kidnapping you, of course.”   
Her anger returned, and she pointed her finger at her father. “I ran away from you. After that awful Prince Achmed, I couldn’t stand being here for another minute.”  
Her father’s face reddened, and he steeled himself against her. “Jasmine. You will wake in the morning, and you will watch him die. Razoul will come for you, you will be ready, and you will watch. You won’t blink. You won’t look away. If you do, I will lock you in the dungeon for the rest of your life. Are we clear?”  
Before she could answer, he turned and stalked out the door. She waited a few minutes and then followed her father out, heading for the dungeon. She slipped quietly down the staircase, listening to her footsteps in the dark silence around her. Jasmine reached the bottom of the stairs armed with the knowledge that there was only one cell her father would keep Aladdin in. She removed the torch from its holder and made her way to the cell at the very end of the row. 

Determination darkened her features as she looked through the small window in the door. The cell was large and dark, smelling of mold and mildew and years of torture and death. She reached up and put the torch into the holder next to the door and unhooked the heavy key from the wall. She pushed the key into the lock. She hesitated before turning it, squeezing her eyes shut tight and expelling a calming breath. The key clicked in the mechanism and she pulled it open, its weight pulling her small frame along for the ride. She dug her heels into the dirt-covered stone floor and willed the door to stop its swing.  
Jasmine pulled the door, ensuring she had the key in her pocket, and stepped into the dank room, and jumped when the door slammed shut behind her. Effectively trapped in the dark room alone, she leaned into the inky blackness, trying to see. Quietly, she tiptoed deeper into the room. She turned a corner, squinting at the small ray of sunlight that shone through the one window in the room. Able to see more clearly, she belatedly realized Aladdin was not there. Every set of manacles was empty, some of them rusted open or rusted shut, and just one set in perfect working order.  
Just as she went to move toward the door, she heard voices in the corridor. Putting a hand over her mouth, she ran to the darkest corner she could find, backing into it and crouching down. She slowed her breaths as much as she could and waited.  
One guard’s voice broke the silence in the dungeon. “Where’s the key?” A moment of waiting during which Jasmine wrapped her slender fingers around the massive key in her pocket. Another voice, “I left it there.” Another tense moment. Jasmine rubbed at her eyes with her hand, attempting to slow her heart, trying not to be terrified they could hear her racing thoughts. “Razoul must have taken it for tomorrow.”  
“Let’s check the door.” With a pull, it opened, and Jasmine closed her eyes, hoping it would make her invisible. She heard the heavy footfalls of the guards, their discussion about the events of the following morning, a dragging sound that hurt her heart.  
“Jafar did a number on this guy, didn’t he,” the guard said as he kicked at Aladdin’s legs.  
“Tomorrow, I know where I’ll be,” the first guard said. “I’ll be in the arena, close enough to smell the blood.” The other guard laughed, adding his deep voice to her torture. “I’ll be down there, too. It’s Razoul I feel sorry for.” The first guard gave him a questioning look. “Where’ll he be?”   
The first guard snorted, his laugh bursting out of him. “He’ll be guarding the royal brat. The Sultan is briefing him now, telling him what is expected, as if he needs a crash course.” Of course the head of the royal guard didn’t need a crash course. He was simply being told how to add to her torture, she was sure. It wasn’t easy to know they referred to her as the 'royal brat'.  
“Is he locked in?” The second guard nodded and the two men moved toward the door. “We’ll see you in the morning, beautiful,” the first guard laughed back into the room. It took Jasmine a minute to realize they weren’t talking to her but to the captive they’d left behind. As soon as the door slammed home behind them, she sprinted from her hiding spot and slid on her knees to a stop in front of Aladdin. “Aladdin? Can you hear me?” Tears began to fall as she catalogued the injuries she could see on him.  
Cuts on his face, obvious broke bones, swelling. Cuts also littered his naked body, as did bruises. She didn’t want to think about the damage she couldn’t see. The guards had a nasty habit of proving their masculinity in front of the other guards.  
“Aladdin?” she whispered again, her fingers tentatively on his face. She knew he lived simply because of the rise and fall of his chest, but beyond that, she couldn’t be sure. It was as she accidentally caught the edge of a cut on his face that he gasped, his right eye, which wasn’t swollen shut, opened to look at her. “I didn’t go –“  
“Oh, Aladdin,” she continued to crouch in front of him, willing him to see her.  
“I meant to get it,” he groaned. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Tears rolled down his bloody cheeks, the sobs racking his body.  
“Hey,” she said quietly, her breath fluttering his hair.  
“Princess?” he whispered.  
“Aladdin,” relief rushed through her, but it didn’t last long.  
“Leave,” he said, clearly, anger flooding his gaze. “Get out,” he slurred. “I don’t want you here. Let me die in peace.”  
She barely understood him, but watched in despair as his eyes closed, his mind collapsing in on itself, effectively locking her out. “Aladdin, I want to get you out of here. Help me help you,” she all but yelled at him.  
His head shook sadly, and then he hung it, allowing his body weight to pull down on his arms, obviously causing himself pain by wrenching his already-dislocated shoulders further out of place. “Go,” he whispered with finality.  
She stood, moving toward the door. “I wish I could save you,” her voice shook as she opened the door. As she closed it quietly behind her, she could swear she heard him say, “I love you.”  
She turned to lock the door, putting the key back on its hook. Casting furtive glances, Jasmine ran back up the stairs, not stopping until she got to her room. Barricading herself inside, she crashed onto her bed, her blankets soaking up her sadness.  
*** He’d just emerged from The Sultan’s quarters when she rushed past, her hands on her face, hiding her features from his sight. He followed a few steps behind, ensuring she made it to her room safely. After hearing her lock snick into place, he went back to his own quarters, dropping his heavy frame onto his cot.  
Having never had a bed, Razoul was used to the militarization of his life. He had left his turban on the table by the door, and now, he looked up at it and the jewel set in it to denote his place in the Palace hierarchy. He’d been head of the Guard for ten years now. _Long enough to know my place_ , he thought ruefully.  
The Sultan had sat across from him, his small stature meaning nothing when he sat on his throne of power. The power of The Sultan’s words washed over Razoul, bathing him in an increasingly sickening feeling he just couldn’t scrub off. “My daughter thinks she can disobey me. After seventeen years, you’d think she’d know better.” Razoul had tried to keep his eyes steady as treasonous thoughts sped through his mind. _You treated her mother like a goddess._  
What did Jasmine do to you to invite this treatment from you?  
“So she will watch the Rat’s beheading tomorrow, and you will ensure she watches it all. You will stand behind her, guarding her so she does not leave directly after. I have a surprise for her; one she will love.” Razoul’s soul shivered at that last remark, and as he stood to leave, The Sultan stopped him with his words.  
“My daughter is nothing more than a creature, driven by id and emotion. You’d do well to remember that she is simply a woman, nothing more. Women are a blemish on our race, and I’d sooner have her put down, but the people would frown upon that. So, do not be surprised by my announcement tomorrow. She will be silenced.”

Razoul scrubbed his hands through his hair. He stood, putting his vest aside, and cleaned off his face and hands in the water basin. He looked at himself in the mirror, attempting to find the man who would carry out The Sultan’s orders. The man who would stand by and watch Jasmine while she was forced to watch someone’s execution.  
The concept frustrated him. He was forced to make a girl he’d watched grow from a sweet little child into the Princess they saw today, a girl he protected, endure something so heinous, he wasn’t sure he could bear it.  
The sun came up too quickly the next morning, and before Razoul knew it, he was standing outside the Princess’s room. He raised a large, meaty fist and knocked twice on the door. It sounded booming to him, and he wondered what it sounded like to her, in the state she must be in. However, when she answered the door to her private quarters, her face was devoid of emotion. She looked as she always looked, pristine and remote, as beautiful as the pictures of glaciers he’d seen.  
“Princess,” he began, bowing low in front of her, his hand stretched out to take hers. In her style, however, she brushed right past him, stopping at the end of the corridor. He caught up to her, placing his hand in the crook of her elbow, and pulled her slightly so she’d walk.

***

When they walked through the bazaar, the people of the stalls bowed to her, calling out to her, trying to sell her their wares, much as they had on the day she’d escaped. Her mind was drawn back to those stolen moments of freedom – a freedom she was sure she’d never feel again – and her thoughts were bombarded by the thoughts of him. Of Aladdin.  
In the coliseum, she stopped short in the small, royal corridor. “I must … freshen up,” she said quietly to her captor. He nodded, nudging her elbow toward the washroom. He’d not said a word during the whole walk, his light brown eyes scanning the crowd, his bulk in a constant protective stance. Now, as she sat in the washroom, her eyes overflowing with tears, she wondered how long she’d be his slave.  
Jasmine pulled off her headband, looking at the jewel within it. She remembered when her father had gifted her the band, explaining that the jewel inside was a Lapis Lazuli, explaining that it meant harmony and deep knowledge of the self. That man was long gone – the man that loved her with every beat of his heart, favoring her with gifts, who smiled and played like his heart was as light as a feather. That man had died with her mother some years ago. _I wonder if he killed her_ flitted quickly through her mind.  
Shaking her head before the theory could take hold, she popped the jewel out of her headband and examined it. Her anger at her father was a tangible thing, a spiked creature she could hold in her hand and squeeze until her flesh bled. Her tears began anew, the fire in them practically scorching her cheeks.  
“Princess, are you well?” came the masculine voice through the door. She was surprised Razoul’s voice wasn’t rough from disuse. He never really spoke to her unless he absolutely had to. A tenet from her father, no doubt.  
“One moment,” she said through the door. She dried her eyes with the cloth that was on the counter and made sure her hair was still in place, even without the headband. She left the fabric from that in the washroom in the bottom of a basket and slipped the Lapis into her pocket. _A new beginning_ , she thought to herself as she opened the door.  
He could tell she’d been crying in the small room, and the sash fabric she wore around her head, gone. He wondered what she’d done with the jewel, but then a mental reprimand hit him harder than it had before. _It doesn’t matter_ , he said to himself, _because she is just a woman. Never forget that she is just a woman._  
Razoul tucked the tips of his fingers back into the crook of her elbow and led her up toward the royal seating in the coliseum. He had watched many executions here, but this, by far, was the one it pained him most to see. He could feel her trepidation as he led her to her seat, his hand on her back a gentle reminder that she was not yet allowed to sit.  
As the arena filled up, she watched the men build the guillotine in the center circle. She forced herself to stand still, to watch, to not move a muscle. To move would show a weakness she was not willing to show Razoul, Jafar, or her father. Especially her father.  
She looked to her left as the crowd went silent. Her father stood there, taller than her on the stool he’d had specially built for himself. A small, quiet part of her smiled at his need for a stool, but it was quickly closed away as he began to speak.  
“We have gathered here today to take part in the execution of a traitor.” Cheers from the crowd. “He chose, off his own free will, to kidnap the Princess. When he was found, it was discovered that the Princess,” he motioned toward her, a quick, cruel look on his face, “had lain with him.” The crowd gasped in horror. Jasmine’s shock registered on her face, but she hid it, retreating into her mind. “Now, the traitor will be executed, as is law, for even daring to attempt to steal something that is –“  
He stopped, and Jasmine looked at him, not knowing what she would see. His blue eyes nailed her to the spot. “For attempting to steal something that belongs to me.” Another quick glance her way. “Something that belongs to me, to you, to all of us. Our jewel in the desert. My Jasmine.” She swore she could hear the venom dripping off his tongue when he said her name. _Do not react. Do not react._ Her mantra resonated inside her mind.  
The two guards from the dungeons walked out, dragging a naked Aladdin between them up onto the platform. The crowd booed and threw anything they could out into the arena. “Silence!” her father shouted, still standing atop his stool. Slowly making his way onto the platform was Jafar, dressed in his maroon and black robes, his features darkened by his joy of the occasion.  
“Your Majesties,” Jafar began, his words a verbal caress as he looked around himself at the crowd whose attention was now riveted to him. “It was I who discovered that the Princess had gone missing, and I who put forth the order to have her found. I have it on good authority,” he said, turning to look up at Jasmine and her father, “that she did not lay with Aladdin.” The crowd booed again, and Jasmine fought against herself to remain standing under their scrutiny. “However, if she had,” he continued, “would you blame her?” He motioned toward Aladdin’s limp body held up by the two guards.  
The crowd’s laughter only seemed to spur Jafar on. He spoke long and loud about Aladdin’s upbringing, referring to him as the “Street Rat.” It seemed he’d heard Prince Achmed’s declaration the day he’d come to try to woo Jasmine. Turning to look at Aladdin, ensuring he was coherent, he raised his voice, the acoustics in the coliseum making his bile thunderous. “You were born a street rat,” he began, spitting the words, “you’ll die a street rat. And only your fleas will mourn you,” he finished, looking up at Jasmine.  
Laying Aladdin down on the bench of the guillotine, Jafar looked down at him. “Do you have anything to say before your sentence is carried out?” Aladdin shook his head, beads of sweat dripping off his face into his hair. He looked up at the sky, his lips moving, but no sound emerged.  
Just as Jafar was readying the guards to move him into position, The Sultan held up a hand and everything in the coliseum went still. He took his leave and reemerged on the coliseum floor, his white slippers kicking up dust as he walked. He took the three steps up to the platform quickly and stopped at the edge. “You have nothing to say?”  
Again, Aladdin shook his head. “You stole the Princess. You took her somewhere you thought we wouldn’t find her, and you soiled her. And yet you have nothing to say?” Jasmine, long since retreated in her mind, thought, _you have the gall to act as though you care._ Keeping her snort quiet, Jasmine continued to watch as her father bade.  
Aladdin closed his eyes, tears streaming from the corners. “Turn him around so his head is here,” The Sultan instructed, pointing at the end of the bench of the guillotine. Jasmine watched in confusion, but only for a moment as realization dawned. “He is nothing but a coward, but he took what was mine. Mine!” he shouted, sounding like an insolent child. “Mine. Since he has nothing to say, I will have my say.”  
The Sultan turned and walked over to one of the guards. “Your blade,” he said, extending his hand. When the guard looked confused, The Sultan reached out and removed his blade from its sheath. The blade glinted in the sunlight, whistling through the air as The Sultan swung it. “Ah, yes,” he whispered, the crowd gone deathly silent.  
“Say nothing now, Street Rat,” The Sultan said to him quietly. Then, loudly, he proclaimed, “For crimes against The Sultan, The Palace, and Agrabah,” and brought the blade down. 

Up in the royal seats, Jasmine watched in wide-eyed horror as her father brought the blade down, again and again, hacking at the neck of a boy she could have loved. A lifetime of love and happy memories was taken away with the sound of a blade. A sound, she noticed, she did not hear. When she went to turn her head, large hands rooted her head so she did not move, but she heard what no one was close enough to hear – humming. A slightly louder humming than the sound in the coliseum. She could see what was happening, but not hear it.  
When The Sultan finished removing Aladdin’s head from his body – it seemed to take an eternity – he threw the blade down on the platform. “And now, a surprise,” The Sultan exclaimed happily. Turning to look up at his daughter, he reached up, taking a hold of Jafar’s elbow. They walked to the edge of the platform and looked up at her.  
“Now, my daughter, precious gift, I must give something to you. I am so glad you are back,” he said with his mouth, but his eyes burned fire at her, wounding her to her very soul. “And in my glee at your return, I must offer you a gift to show my gratefulness.” He turned, addressing the crowd. “Today was not a happy day, really, it was most solemn. But you will get your chance to celebrate.”  
He looked back up at Jasmine. “Please, my daughter, stand.” She reluctantly stood, walking to the front of the box, and felt Razoul come up behind her, almost as if he were eager to hear what was to be said. “My gift to you, dear daughter, is something I’ve been working on for quite some time.” He lifted Jafar’s arm as high as he could, and Jafar raised his arm all the way. “Jasmine, I give you Lord Jafar.” A panicked shock fell over the crowd. “And Lord Jafar, my Royal Vizier, I give you the hand of Princess Jasmine,” he paused, his happiness perversely erotic, “in marriage.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains some elements from previous chapter. Was unsure about how to combine the 2, so instead left them as their own entities.


End file.
